Cry of the Mockingjay
by GoldStarMockingjay
Summary: Set post- Mockingjay. A fluffy one-shot in the POV of Katniss. Reflects on her life and children after her daughter brings home a gift that reminds her of her suffering. How can she move forward with her life when her head is still in the past? Rated K plus for mild language, mention of death and the Games. Lots of cute fluff!


**Author's note: My second fanfic and my first using characters that we already know and love. I mean, Mr. Mellark could have been anything I made him. This time I spent a lot of time trying to get into the heads of these characters. This is still meant to be fluff, I'll get into the serious stuff after I find my fanfic footing! Enjoy! Constructive criticism welcome, flaming and meanness is not. P.s I tried to come up with neat Hunger Games sounding names for the Mellark babies, but found nothing that suited this story, but I will take name suggestions!**

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and all associated content belongs to Suzanne Collins. If only I were that brilliant!

"How was school today?" I ask the bright eyed girl skipping next to me. "We painted pictures today, Mommy!" my daughter replies joyfully. She reaches a tiny hand into the backpack I'm carrying and fishes around for something. I stop and hold the bag steady for her. "Why don't we wait until we get home? Then you can show me, Daddy and Rye together!" Her face scrunches up, unimpressed by my idea. Reluctantly she agrees and we continue our walk home.

xxxxxx

Peeta had suggested the names for both of our children- Pearl and Rye. It was agreed upon early in my pregnancy that they would not be named after anyone. The pain for us would be too great, and we refused to put that burden on our children. The terror really started as my belly became swollen with child. The thick scar tissue became more prominent and even sadder to me. But Peeta kept telling me how skin got twice as strong after it had been wounded and healed. He said it made our baby extra safe. To me, it just reminded me of my pain even more. At first, I only feigned interest in Pearl following her birth. Truthfully, I never really knew what to do with babies. Added to the fact that having my own terrified me it took me a long while to learn to love her. "She's your daughter," Peeta had said, "she loves you and you love her, Katniss." Despite his occasional nightmares he was, as expected, the perfect father and husband. It made me bitter. It came naturally to him, and here I was with a conflicted love for my own child.

That's not to say that I wasn't delighted when I held her for the first time. I was overjoyed, but fear overcame me. The first month Peeta would bring Pearl to me. "There's Mommy!" he would whisper to her. In some ways I felt he was forcing her on me. "Peeta, you wanted children! Enjoy the baby and leave me alone!" I would yell on my bad days. He reacted in true Peeta fashion, kissing me gently on the head and giving me time to myself. In time I went through the motions of caring for her. While I got closer to her physically I stayed emotionally distant. Exasperated, Peeta's patience began wavering, "Katniss, we can't go on like this. It's okay for you to bond with her. She's safe. She won't be taken from you." I sat cross legged on our bed holding a sleeping Pearl. "I know," tears streamed down my face, "I'm trying." His face softened and he sat next to me, pulling me close. "There, there..." he soothed, stroking my hair and drying my tears.

"Do you know why I suggested the name Pearl?" he asked softly. And then I made the connection. "The Quarter Quell," memories of the beach, mutts, and the other tributes filled my mind. And then I saw the spile and pearl attached to my belt. Peeta had given me the pearl and it had followed me to district 13. He smiled and nodded, "That pearl is just like our Pearl. Something really special in the middle of fear and sadness." My tears dried and I realized just how much Peeta and Pearl meant to me. From then on I made a better effort to bond with her. It was not easy to ignore my fears, and the birth of Rye made me go through them all again; but I love my children and I love Peeta.

xxxxxx

Taking my hand in hers, I walk with Pearl to the bakery. During the day Haymitch sometimes watches Rye if he can stay sober so I can hunt and help out in the community. We'd had an agreement that the kids couldn't be around him otherwise- an agreement he was most strict about. Today he has fallen off the wagon, however, so I'm picking up Rye from the day he spent with his dad. Everyone in town loves the kids, though and business is best on the days Peeta has his little baking partners. The bell on the door rings as we walk in. "Hey!" Peeta exclaims, catching Pearl in his open arms, "my favorite girls are here!" Rye then hops off the chair he is sitting on behind the counter, running towards me, "Mama!" I scoop him up, regretting the time I had to spend away from him. "What did you do today with Daddy?" He points his chubby fingers to a display of frosted cookies. Still a toddler, his words are few and far between. "Ohhh pretty! Pearl painted a picture today at school." Peeta kisses me and grabs her backpack off the counter, "Let's see Pearlie!" With her little tongue sticking out in concentration she rummages in the bag, pulling out a piece of paper.

She holds it up proudly to show us and I see four stick figures in order of descending height and a child's interpretation of a cat. "Who's in the picture, Pearlie?" I ask, crouching down with Rye to examine it. "Daddy, Mommy, me, Rye and Buttercup Jr!" And then I notice a figure in the corner with several large birds, "What's this?" Pearl turns the paper to face her, her eyes lighting up in recognition. "Oh! Grandpa and his geese!" I smile at Haymitch's likeness, "We'll have to show this to him tomorrow." Closing up the shop (with cheese buns in a paper box for dinner), Peeta and I walk the short distance to our home with our children.

xxxxxx

The next day a sober Haymitch volunteers to take Rye and walk Pearl home. This allows me the time to go to the woods and take down several birds (but not geese. They remind Pearl too much of Haymitch's pets she's named Fluffy, Buddy, Feathers, and a variety of other generic names). I take them back to the Victor's Village, pluck them, wash the roots and greens I gathered, and roast everything. It's not until Peeta comes home with a cake that I remember that today is Mother's Celebration. In most districts it doesn't call for a day off, or even much acknowledgement, but Peeta always makes a fuss over me. "It's beautiful!" I kiss him, observing the cake that he had frosted with a bow and arrows, primroses and wildlife on the face of it. My first few birthdays and holidays after the rebellion many people from town and the capitol sent gifts and cards with mockingjays and fiery pictures on them. But Peeta and I now avoid these symbols. After the 74th Hunger Games he had made me a small mockingjay cupcake, but since the war ended the symbol seems a different beast entirely. It hurts our hearts to see it.

Peeta sets the cake on the kitchen counter and kisses me on the nose, "Happy Mother's Celebration! Thank you for our beautiful kids!" I allow him to wrap his arms around me, effectively pulling me away from my cooking. "Wait! I have to finish dinner!" I squirm in his arms and attempt to stir the greens. This begins a mock wrestling match that only ends when we hear the doorknob click. We freeze. Years of fear have made us cautious and I grab the bow I keep stashed in each room of the house. Peeta is even more frozen than I am, his eyes sickeningly blank. I draw the bow and point it towards the door in an instant. The door swings open and Haymitch pops his head in, "Don't shoot, sweetheart!" He knows to expect this response. Pearl and Rye smile at me, unaffected by my response. Our children are habitually desensitized to our gun shy responses. "Pearl was released early today." Peeta takes a moment to compose himself and calm his racing heart before hugging them.

Pearl has her bag clutched to her chest and I see her trying to hide something. I raise an eyebrow and look into her blue eyes quizzically. "Mommy, I have something for you." I smile, "What's that?" I expect another picture, or a clay animal. Instead, she pulls out a single long stemmed rose. My heart stops as my nose inhales the sickeningly sweet smell and suddenly I'm seeing President Snow's puffy lips and strategically placed blooms so I'd know he was watching me. She holds it out to me with pride, "Teacher took us to the meadow to pick flowers for Mother's Celebration. Do you like it?" I can't will myself to touch it, but her face is falling and I know she senses my hesitation. Peeta steps between us and lifts her up. "Mommy loves it. She's just so happy. Why don't I take you and Rye to the meadow until dinner?" He says breezily. As soon as Pearl's feet touch the ground she chases Rye into the yard. "Katniss? You okay?" I nod silently. He looks me in the eye purposely and sets the white blossom on the table before leaving. I sit at the table in front of the rose, briefly aware of Haymitch rummaging in the cupboards. Defeated in his search for alcohol he throws his hands in the air and sits beside me. "You never drink in front of the kids," I say. "It wasn't for me," he shrugs. "Look, you know I don't coddle you guys. Except for the little ankle biters. You know I love them most." He picks up the rose and twirls it in his fingers. "I'm not telling you to get over it; hell, I'm in no place to talk. I'm a damn mess. But you have to learn that you're not in war with the Capitol or in the Games anymore." I sigh, still avoiding the rose he's trying to extend towards me to brush my hand with. "Peeta is living his life. His head isn't stuck in the past."

"It comes easily to him. Just like most things." Haymitch stops twirling the stem and gives me a death glare, "Stop the pity party. He was tortured and has conflicting feelings to occasionally kill you. Not to mention he's only got one of his own legs left." In that instant I want to take it back. I know Haymitch is right. Peeta is really strong, things seem easy to him because he's got so much self control and bravery in him and he's fought hard to never hurt me or the kids during a hallucination (which are much less frequent). "I know," I say. Next thing I know I'm sobbing in great hiccups. It's hard to ignore the past. Fear is a very dark shadow that can consume your soul. No matter how much you try to shine light on the depths of your sadness sometimes you can't chase the dark away.

xxxxxx

That night after Peeta returns we all sit down to eat the roast duck. The rose stayed on the countertop where Haymitch left it. He had sat by silently waiting for my tears to stop pouring, with no words of wisdom. He simply rubbed my back and cursed his sobriety. I stayed quiet through dinner. Peeta watched me curiously, prompting the kids to talk about their evening in the meadow. I felt like Pearl had just been born again- going through the motions and not enjoying my daughter. The rose stirred a dark place inside me and brought with it tragic memories to the surface. Prim. Snow. Gale. Boggs. Coin. Cinna. Rue. Finnick. Fire. Death. An internal battle waged on and suddenly I felt a small piece of how Peeta must have after the hijacking. My head and heart fought through dinner, and the memories refused to leave me alone. Haymitch gave me looks across the table, nodding to the rose. "Take it," I could hear him say, "Don't let your obsession with the past disappoint your daughter." After we had eaten cake Haymitch announces that he will be leaving. He claps Peeta on the back, "Hey, I got a question." "What is it?" Peeta asks, stroking Rye's blonde head. Haymitch waves his hand dismissively, "Oh, it's nothing.. Just wondering if I can bring the geese inside the house at your next dinner party, is all." Peeta rolls his eyes and laughs, "We'll talk." Haymitch nods, then hugs me, whispering "Stay strong sweetheart. And happy Mother's Celebration." He picks up Pearl and Rye in a standing hug and they squeal with delight. "Bye Grandpa!" they wave their tiny hands as he departs.

"Okay guys, upstairs! Time for bed!" Peeta grabs each of them in the crook of his arm and hauls them upstairs. He still says nothing to me. I turn off the lights and climb the steps to Rye's bedroom. He yawns and doesn't fight me putting on his pajamas tonight, "Too much fun with Grandpa Haymitch?" I ask him in a soft voice. "Story," he says firmly. "Okay," I give in. I tuck him into bed and pull a book of tied parchment paper off the shelf. It was my idea for Peeta to paint stories for the kids about our families and happy times we shared. This particular story features Prim and her goat Lady. I read the story, showing him the pictures of Prim sneaking Lady into the house and tying ribbons on her one day. It's not long that he falls asleep, but I keep reading the story. I need it for myself tonight. As I finish the last page and shut the book I feel very sad. Instead of crying like I want to I simply whisper an 'I love you', kiss his head, pull up the covers and turn out the light. I walk to the next room and peek inside at a sleeping Pearl, repeat the routine and walk down the hall to the room Peeta and I share. I dread confronting him now. I don't want to disappoint him. I don't want him to realize what I've known all along: I am a bad mother. I draw in a huge breath and open the door.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed sketching in his sketchbook. "They're both asleep," I say hesitantly. He replies without looking up, "Yeah, Pearlie was exhausted. She barely made it to page two of her story." We go what feels like a long time in silence before he speaks first. "Wanna talk about it?" He knows what happened and how I feel. In a lot of ways he knows me better than I know myself, but he's a firm believer that talking things through is the solution. Something Dr. Aurelius taught him. "Not really. I'll be fine, I'm just tired. Long day." We never fight, only go through periods of time where we need our space. We always make up and we love each other, but we don't always want to share our feelings. I don't even bother putting on my pajamas, I just kiss him goodnight and slide under the covers curled into a ball. He sighs and goes back to drawing. Usually we hold onto each other all night in defense against the nightmares, but some nights neither of us wants to be touched. Like tonight. I stay awake long after he goes to sleep, staring into nothingness. Some nights we also have to sleep with the light on, tonight is one of those nights, too. It must be nearing midnight when I hear the door creak quietly. I tense, grazing the bow under the mattress with my fingers. The steps get closer, ever so slowly... I whip around and draw my bow, only to see an unflinching Pearl staring into the shaft of the arrow pointed towards her. "Pearlie," I whisper relieved, pushing the bow under the mattress. "What's wrong?" she stares at Peeta, checking for signs that he's awake. When she finds none she knows to whisper, "Mommy I can't sleep." Her coal black hair is frizzy in its braid down her back and she clutches a teddy bear. "I had a bad dream." I pull back the covers and herd her down the stairs to the kitchen. "I'll make you some tea," I grab the kettle, fill it with water and set it on the burner. The stools that line the kitchen counter are tall, but Pearl and her bear scale it easily. "You know, sometimes talking about our nightmares can help," I try Peeta's tactic. "You and Daddy and Rye were in it. And me," she bites her bottom lip, "and Rye and me were in the meadow and a big metal bird came down. It picked us up, but you and Daddy didn't do anything. You just waved goodbye to us." Tears streak her sweet face and in an instant I'm sitting on the stool and pulling her into my lap. She nuzzles into my neck and wraps her legs around me. I hug her tightly, ignoring the kettle's quiet high pitched hiss. "Shhh, it's okay. That would never happen." Her biggest fear is losing Peeta and I. Part of me is thankful that her nightmares aren't like the ones kids in the districts used to have about the reapings and Games, but her fear hurts me.

"What do you do when you have bad dreams?" Usually her and Rye sleep through Peeta's thrashing and my screaming nightmares, they've grown used to it just like the bows placed in the rooms. They are aware of them, though. Pearl is at an age where she's beginning to realize that things like that don't happen in all families. "We give each other a hug, then we check on you guys. In the morning we spend lots of time with you and your brother," I smile, playfully tapping her nose with my index finger. Her braid sways against her back as she rubs her eyes and I notice the salty wet pools dotting my shirt. "Will you always love me?" she asks innocently. "Of course. More than anything in the world." She sniffles, "okay. Just checking", she replies staring longingly at the rose she picked for me. It's beginning to wilt. I then realize how heavy the implications of her dream are. Although I'll never tell him, Haymitch is right. Living in the past is isolating me from my family. I make no move towards the rose, instead I stand up (with Pearl still wrapped around me) and pour cups of tea. We retreat to the couch and stay intertwined through the night, sleeping soundly.

xxxxxx

The next morning Pearl and I are awake long before the boys. The sky is still dark, but we both feel well rested enough to start the day. The rose is still on both of our minds as I begin making breakfast. She doesn't touch it or mention it. I can tell her feelings are beginning to bruise like the flower itself. Finally I answer her question from the day before. "I love it Pearlie. Thank you," I finally pick up the hard green stem and stick it in a vase of water to display it on the table for all to enjoy. My daughter's beautiful blue eyes stare at me lovingly and the two of us share a smile only mother and child could understand.


End file.
